


Hopeless Motel Rooms

by GreenRogue



Series: In All their Angsty Hurt [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester is Missing, Depression, Gen, Hearing Voices, Missing Scene, Sam Winchester's Season 14 Angst Beard, Season/Series 14
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:15:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22293916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenRogue/pseuds/GreenRogue
Summary: The decades have not been kind to long standing traditions, obligatory bibles replaced with questionable bottles of lube and condom wrappers, TV’s old and cracked, still with advertisements of channels in color. Threadbare comforters on lumpy mattresses that are in desperate for replacement, it’s all a sickening reminder of a life he’s grown used to.A contemplation during Sam's endless and tireless search for Dean.
Series: In All their Angsty Hurt [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1480616
Kudos: 21





	Hopeless Motel Rooms

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own SPN or the characters, purely written for fun
> 
> This will be a collection of just angsty shite. Writing is my outlet and when I can't concentrate on life, I go where life doesn't hurt that much and make it bleed. **disclaimer** I don't know where this came from, it's not happy, it's not kind.

* * *

Sam let’s the cold water awaken his senses as he splashes the questionable liquid in his face. Fluorescent lights above him hum distinctly in the background of the quiet motel room and he leans forward on the counter with his eyes closed. He let’s out a tired sigh that he feels deep in his bones as he absently chews on his inner cheek. It’s been a month, a month of searching, bargaining, practically begging for any sign or word of Dean and _Michael_. A month of nothing but empty leads, false claims, and an aching loss that grows with every day.

Running his hand absently through his hair, Sam shuffles from the confining bathroom into the dimly lit motel room. Non descript, cookie cutter, same as every other god damn motel room across the great Midwest. He barely takes in the tacky décor anymore, themes that roughly resemble whatever tourist trap these places try to entice visitors to stay with. The decades have not been kind to long standing traditions, obligatory bibles replaced with questionable bottles of lube and condom wrappers, TV’s old and cracked, still with advertisements of channels in color. Threadbare comforters on lumpy mattresses that are in desperate for replacement, it’s all a sickening reminder of a life he’s grown used to. A life that never really seemed so dark as long as Dean was there, as long as he had his brother.

Each is a depressing detail of Sam’s past few weeks of existence blending into a muddy color of sparse rooms and too many nights staring at an increasingly aging laptop. The far wall was decorated with news articles, hand written memo’s, the occasional grainy picture of a familiar figure. All whispers and ghosts of places Dean has been but nothing pointing to where he is _going_. Dinner from the night before is still on the table, half eaten and forgotten in favor of a new trail that he was currently obsessing over. Sam let’s his eyes roam over the newspaper article, the story of a little girl who claimed an angel killed her father. The story of a man with piercing green eyes appearing before them and asking what they want. Michael was searching for something, or maybe someone. Sam wasn’t sure, all he knew was he was taking his brother along for the ride. Exhaustion ached at his bones, pulled at his muscles and dulled his emotions until nothing but sharp pain remained. Taking a deep breath, he scratched at his neck, feeling the growing beard irritate his skin.

‘ _You need a shave Sammy.’_

“No time, gotta finish this”. Sam could practically hear his brother’s chuckle in his ear and he smiled in spite of himself. “Yeah alright, quick shave”. He grabbed his toiletry bag before going back to the bathroom again, eyes steadfast towards the carpet. He was methodical, robotic, as he pulled the can of shaving cream and razor from the smaller bag. He didn’t wait for the water to warm up as he dampened his skin again and applied the cream.

_‘Easy as pie little brother, clean up.’_

“Easy for you to say.”

_‘Don’t be such a bitch about it. Just shave man’._

“Shuddup Jerk”.

_‘Bitch’._

He felt almost ridiculous as he stared at the razor for a moment before bringing it to his face and he finally sought his reflection in the mirror.

Eye’s locked, frozen. His gaze flitted from eye to eye, to ear to ear, down to his mouth then to his raised hand. He let the razor drop before closing his eyes again, loud clatter of plastic against the porcelain sink. He wasn’t him, he wasn’t here, he wasn’t ok, he wasn’t Sam. In a fit of suppressed rage, he swiped his arms over the counter, bag and contents scattering across the floor. He lets out a shout of pain and anger before punching the mirror. Sam let’s the fire in his heart burn through his body, up his arm and into his fist until the mirror cracks down the middle. He stops, hot tears rolling unheeded down his cheeks, shaving cream slopping off his skin onto his flannel shirt. He closes his eyes again against the burning pain in his head before grabbing a towel.

Angrily he wipes away the shaving cream from his face, lets the still running water numb his aching knuckles before looking at his reflection again. Worry lines crease across his forehead, lips drawn in a pinched line. His eyes look desperate and lost as he searches his face. Under it all, Sam can still feel the scared kid he’s always been. Still feel the pains and aches from too many nights worrying about Dad, or Dean. He can still feel that 18 year old kid, Stanford dreams still bright and attainable. The scared 23 year old, losing his brother to a hell of a deal with no hope in sight.

Can still feel the demon blood – Hell—

He looks at the beard on his face, the scraggily hair damp and slightly sticky. The proof of tireless nights and endless searching. He almost doesn’t recognize himself, almost doesn’t see the taint—

_Boy with the demon blood_

_Abomination_

_Feak_

_Vampire_

He turns away, ache in his heart and knuckles. He can’t now, he won’t. As foolish as it sounds he needs it, needs the mask it’s provided. The false sense of _someone else_ it provides. Because if he had to look at his face, see the failure he is as Dean is out there—no. He won’t change because he can’t change. He can’t see what he is this way, can’t see the past failures at saving Dean. He won’t let it be that way again, he just can’t.

_‘Sammy—don’t’._

“Don’t what Dean? What am I not supposed to do”?

_‘Don’t quit like this. Don’t give up.’_

Sam rips the notes and articles from the walls, stuffs his bag with his personal items before leaving some cash on the table for the broken mirror. He’s in the Impala heading back to the bunker before he’s truly aware of what he is doing, of where he’s going. He’s chewing on his cheek again, a new nervous habit that brings the twinge of pain to keep him grounded. He will not be what he was, never again. He will not allow himself to be –that—again until Dean is home, because he is coming home. There is no question or choice in the matter. Without Dean, there is no Sam. The beard will stay, a carefully hidden shield in this dangerous game of cat and mouse. It’ll stay, until Dean stays.

_‘Find me Sammy’._


End file.
